


A Wealth in Division

by mimesere



Series: Remedial Virtue [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Hurt/Comfort, Other, aziraphale's fear of holy water as it regards crowley, famous serpents in history
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 04:50:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20334349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimesere/pseuds/mimesere
Summary: And that was the problem with miracles. They were a shortcut: good enough for convenience, sufficient unto the day and all, but they were temporary. Subject to the whims of an indecently contrary universe. For the things that really truly mattered, the things you wanted to last, you couldn't beat the work of your own hands.





	A Wealth in Division

In the (second) beginning:

Crowley's flat was astonishingly empty of comfort. Aziraphale looked around the entryway curiously, the collector in him wondering at the provenance and meaning behind each spotlit object along the wall. More light spilled out from behind a half open door that led into another room, where Aziraphale could just see an ornate table and chair and, strangely, a bucket on its side on the floor next to a discarded coat. There was a lingering smell of brimstone and rot, something remarkably like a stagnant pond, thick and cloying. And under that, the smell of a garden, of every garden he'd ever been in, all of them at Crowley's side.

It was all just so stark. Crowley was a creature of strong opinions and stronger preferences; their emotions spilled out of them, irrepressible and often at maximum volume, with extravagant gestures besides. The flat was...not that. The flat felt like all the lies Crowley implied but didn't actually tell.

Crowley swayed a little, sunglasses dangling loosely in their fingers and eyes half closed, staring blankly in the general direction of the bucket. Aziraphale went to him and took Crowley's cold hand into his own, plucking the glasses free and tucking them away into a pocket of his coat. "You're dead on your feet, dear," Aziraphale said quietly. "Let's get you cleaned up and we'll rest."

He didn't miss the flicker of Crowley's tongue and the way the yellow of their irises had spread to fill the whole of their eyes. They watched Aziraphale silently, glancing from his face down to their clasped hands and back. "'m fine," they said.

"I can see that," said Aziraphale, agreeable and inexorable. "Off we go, then."

Crowley led him carefully past the coat on the floor through an office with the most absurdly ornate chair and table, then past lush, trembling plants and a statue that made Aziraphale raise his eyebrows and hide a smile. There were skylights everywhere and all the blinds were open, letting in the light from outside. 

"Let there be light," Crowley said and fumbled at the light switch. The toilet was all cool gray walls, dark tile, and gleaming hardware. Another skylight took up most of the ceiling. It looked much more like a photograph of a bathroom than anything anyone had ever used, which was, of course, largely accurate. And it had one of those funny showers with a million places for water to assault one's body and no tub at all.

"Oh dear," said Aziraphale, at a loss, not for the first time that day.

Crowley blinked, exhausted human slow, and said, "Not good?" They looked around, frowning.

"Not what I was expecting is all," said Aziraphale. Crowley tugged at their clasped hands and, when Aziraphale failed to let go, snapped the fingers on their other hand. A tub blinked into existence, the same neutral gray as everything else, and the rest of the room shifted about, grumbling, to accommodate it.

Crowley made a noise and crumpled to the floor in slow motion, strings cut, graceless, and mumbled, "Better?" at nothing at all.

Aziraphale looked down at them, regret welling up in his chest. He should have just let it be, he thought. Miracled away what Crowley hadn't already.

He knelt next to Crowley, hauling them up enough to begin on divesting them of their clothing. "You are an exceedingly foolish serpent," Aziraphale said, fond and irritated all at once. The edges of their coat crumbled away under Aziraphale's fingers, burnt to ash. Everything was burnt. _Crowley_ was burnt, ash in their hair and small patches of skin coming through red and blistered where their clothes had failed to protect them. Their skin was worryingly cool under Aziraphale's hands.

"This?" said Crowley. "S'nothing. Had far worse, me." They made a sound like a bomb falling, a low whistle followed by the sound of an explosion. They tipped forward at Aziraphale's urging, forehead landing on Aziraphale's shoulder. 

"No doubt," said Aziraphale, pushing the coat off Crowley's shoulders. And it was true, he realized. Crowley had survived every fire they'd fallen, sauntered, stumbled, driven, or been thrown into. His fingers felt the fine grit of ash and his eyes denied it. If he closed them, he thought he might be able to find the seams of Crowley's work, where they'd patched over the ragged remnants of their clothes with the reality they preferred. Ridiculous, vain creature to spend so much effort for the appearance of imperviousness.

Unbidden, a memory a thousand and more years old rose up, leviathan-like, of Crowley's hand in Aziraphale's hair while Aziraphale wept furiously on their shoulder. It had smelled the same then, fire and death and the sour staleness of exhaustion. Crowley's presence had been an unexpected and unwanted kindness, a reminder that Aziraphale hadn't been alone in his grief and doubt and rage, however much he'd thought he was.

Aziraphale reached up, tentative, and cupped the back of Crowley's head. He heard their breath hitch before they went beautifully, wonderfully heavy against Aziraphale's shoulder and chest, loose limbed and pliant. I'm here, he wanted to say. I have you. Crowley tucked their head into Aziraphale's neck and Aziraphale stroked the short hairs at the nape of Crowley's neck, saying nothing, content in the moment and afraid to disturb the soap bubble fragile peace.

He could have stayed there forever, Aziraphale thought, a hundred years at least, had Crowley not shifted their weight and said, "ow," in a small enough voice that Aziraphale couldn't help but smile. Aziraphale miracled away the rest of Crowley's clothes to the nearest bin, filled the tub with water just shy of too hot even for them, and deposited Crowley in the bath. He rolled up his sleeves and reached for a flannel and soap, both of which were surprised to find themselves in a bathroom instead of a shelf in a store.

"What are you doing?" asked Crowley. The not entirely idle curiosity in their tone caught at Aziraphale's attention and he glanced over at Crowley's face. Crowley, in turn, watched Aziraphale's hands with all the sharpening focus of a snake that's just realized how vulnerable they've left themselves.

"Er. Cleaning you up?" said Aziraphale. He waved the flannel at them.

"I am clean," said Crowley. And technically, that was true. Crowley had banished the soot and debris they'd arrived at the airfield with. They'd fixed the appearance of their clothing. Most people -- most angels and demons too -- wouldn't have felt the crumbling edges of Crowley's coat; the minor miracle would have rendered it as whole and complete to their fingers as it very likely was to Crowley's[1].

* * *

The simplest miracles, the kind that didn't draw down reprimands and celestial ire, what Crowley laughingly called the alchemical miracles, were the ones that started near to what the desired result was to be. A bottle of reasonably good wine could be easily convinced to dress up and do a turn as a 2009 Clos du Tart. With a little effort, one could turn lead into gold, though why anyone would want to was still beyond Aziraphale's comprehension[2]. 

There were exceptions, of course. Things that were simply themselves and no amount of coaxing or nudging or outright demanding could convince them to be otherwise. The Bentley refused any such imposition on its perception of itself. It would allow a temporary addition at Aziraphale's request, sometimes, if it was in the mood, or if Crowley was in the mood to be indulgent, but on the whole it treated miracles as something that happened to lesser objects. Books knew themselves well enough to reject attempts to change them. Miracles slid off older buildings, the ones with a history or the ones that had caught humanity's whimsy, like water off ducks. No amount of effort on Aziraphale's part could turn a child's beloved object into anything except what the child believed it to be.

At any rate, point was this: most things, in Aziraphale's experience, wanted to be better than they were. Broken things wanted to be mended; gross matter sought refinement. Things that had been lost wanted to be found. It was simply a matter of convincing them that they could be.

It took barely a thought to nudge something -- a torn coat, for example -- into remembering what it was to be whole and mended[3]. Where things became messier was when the memory of destruction was stronger than the one of integrity.

For Aziraphale, Crowley's coat remembered burning and pressed the memory of it into his fingertips until he couldn't feel anything else. Burnt and unburnt, over and over again on the infinite trip between London and Tadfield, subject to Crowley's diamond hard certainty that there was nothing left fire could do to hurt them. Crowley couldn't fully erase the memory of something like that. No one short of God Herself could. 

It was the sort of experience that made things refuse to go back to the way they had been; the only way to do anything with them was to accept that they had changed, irrevocably, and remake them in the face of it. 

That was the problem with miracles. They were a shortcut: good enough for convenience, sufficient unto the day and all, but they were temporary. Subject to the whims of an indecently contrary universe. For the things that really truly mattered, the things you wanted to last, you couldn't beat the work of your own hands.

* * *

"Crowley," Aziraphale said firmly. "Let me do this."

"You could have just stuck me in the shower if you wanted me cleaner," Crowley pointed out reasonably. "Turned the water on." They reached for the flannel in Aziraphale's hand, trying to take it from him. "You don't need to do all this."

He _did_. Aziraphale tugged the cloth back. "Let me take care of you. This once."

Crowley froze and Aziraphale saw the questions forming -- the why would you and the reflexively suspicious what do you want -- and steeled himself to patience. But then Crowley let go of the flannel and settled back, still looking at Aziraphale warily.

"All right," Crowley said, sounding puzzled. "If that's what--all right."

Aziraphale let himself relax a little, not entirely trusting Crowley to remain gracious. They hated favors; they hated anything and everything they received that so much as hinted it wasn't the result of their own work. Aziraphale had given up on actually handing them a gift after the fifth time he caught Crowley examining it as if expecting a trap[4]. 

He tapped Crowley on the knee, definitely not laughing at their awkward, coltish start as if they'd just remembered they even had legs. Instead, Aziraphale slid the cloth around and under Crowley's knee and along their calf and down to their ankle, helping them brace their foot against the side of the tub. "It is what I want," Aziraphale said, setting to washing Crowley's foot. 

There was another flicker of Crowley's tongue, forked this time. Scales spread over the arch of their foot and Aziraphale could no more have stopped himself from running a curious finger over them than he could have manifested them himself. Crowley's foot jerked in his hand and Aziraphale moved with it, holding on. "Crowley," he said. "Please."

Crowley subsided again. The scales on their foot were gone as if they'd never been there in the first place. Aziraphale continued, as careful as he'd be with the rarest of books and for the same reasons. 

Even in compliance, Crowley managed to disturb Aziraphale's attempts at peace. Why would you, they didn't ask, and Aziraphale wanted to answer anyway. An extraordinary cockup on his part, he wanted to say; an apology for his lack of faith, or an excess of it perhaps, or just the right amount but misplaced; for denying them; for using Crowley's steadfast affection as a lever. 

Penitence, he didn't say, and moved on to Crowley's other foot. 

"Are you praying?" asked Crowley suddenly, eyes narrowing. 

"No," said Aziraphale, who had been not praying _exactly_, and spent the tiniest fraction of a second terrified he had accidentally blessed the water. The cold jolt of fear and adrenaline spread across the back of his shoulders and down his arms, setting his hands to shaking and ignoring how ridiculous he was being. 

"You get all—" Crowley motioned at their own face in a way they clearly thought meant something, oblivious to Aziraphale's sudden trembling. "when you pray."

"I am an angel," Aziraphale said. Crowley was _fine_. The bath water wasn't holy. "I don't need to pray." No need to mention how poorly the last attempt had gone. He ran the cloth over Crowley's absurdly knobby knees with more vigor than he'd intended and immediately felt terrible about it. 

"Didn't say you needed to, just that you were."

"Well, I'm not," Aziraphale said. He dragged the cloth up the length of Crowley's thigh, focusing on the very real, very not dead, very, very dear demon under his hands. More scales crawled over Crowley's hip and up their belly, covering another burn. 

It was just that he'd imagined this very thing when Crowley had first asked. A bath or perhaps just a glass, more innocent than brandy. Would boiling it for tea have rendered the blessing moot? He had imagined it a dozen different ways after he'd gone to Crowley's townhome and been turned away, a hundred more after he'd returned a month later and found someone not Crowley in residence. After handing over the thermos, he'd imagined himself there with Crowley, pouring the water himself.

Crowley hissed and the scales slipped away again, taking the burn with them. Aziraphale laid his hand against where the burn and scales had been and felt only whole skin underneath his fingers. 

"You can change, if it will help," said Aziraphale.

Crowley shook their head, mouth thinned and frowning. "It won't."

They lapsed into silence. Aziraphale finished washing Crowley's stomach and chest and shoulders, reaching around to urge them forward so he could get at their back. "I don't think I've seen you change in years."

"Two thousand, give or take some decades," Crowley said vaguely[5]. Their eyes were still edge to edge yellow, half lidded and slit pupiled, still watching Aziraphale. "It's simple to be a snake."

Aziraphale wrung out the flannel. "That doesn't seem to be too terrible a thing. Close your eyes, dear."

Crowley did. Aziraphale tilted their head up, cleaning away the last traces of soot and ash from Crowley's face. So softly it might have gone unheard by anyone else, they said, "I'm afraid I won't want to come back."

"Oh," said Aziraphale quietly. Crowley nodded and sighed; Aziraphale felt them relax a touch more, their head heavier in Aziraphale's hands. "Just a bit more," he said and poured water over Crowley's hair, combing through it with his fingers. 

Something in Crowley's wordless hum of approval and the quiet, trusting weight of them scooped the remaining nervous fear out of his chest. Crowley was clean and whole, their burns healed, and they'd let go of making it look like the day hadn't touched them. Aziraphale set the water to drain and miracled in a bath towel, patting Crowley dry. They grumbled but let themselves be half-carried out of the tub and down the hall.

One of the doors swung open as they passed, which Aziraphale took as both direction and invitation. Sure enough, he found a bed – as lush and over the top as he would have expected from Crowley – and helped them into it, arranging the covers to his satisfaction. "There now," he said, pleased.

"Aziraphale," Crowley said, voice scratchy with exhaustion. They reached out, circling Aziraphale's wrist with their long fingers and pulling him closer. "I can't promise we're safe here."

"I can," said Aziraphale, kneeling beside the bed, stomach twisting at-- at _looming_ over Crowley, too close to the memory of Crowley brought to their knees all unwilling.

"They're going to come for us."

Agnes' last prophecy was in Aziraphale's pocket. "I know. I'll think of something," he said, refusing to let himself believe otherwise. "We're going to dine at the Ritz tomorrow."

Crowley's face did the funny little thing they'd been doing for centuries, hiding a smile somehow in the downturned corners of their mouth. "Yeah?" 

"Yes," he said firmly. "I've been wanting to try the sole. And you are going to try that tawny port you've been eyeing."

"All right," Crowley said after a moment, sounding as certain as Aziraphale had ever heard them. "Fantastic. Lunch at the Ritz tomorrow." 

Aziraphale was helpless against the sudden, fierce tenderness that welled up in him at Crowley's agreement; it was the sort of sentiment that Gabriel dismissed as tawdry and unbecoming: too rich and textured, too messy to fit in with the cool, sleek lines and minimal decor of Heaven. Carried along by the rush of it, he reached out and touched the expressive arch of Crowley's eyebrow and traced the serpent looping infinity at Crowley's temple with careful fingers. 

He pressed his lips to Crowley's forehead, as gentle as he knew how and Crowley sighed and said, in tones of deep resignation, "Really, angel."

"Hush you, let me have this," said Aziraphale, resting his forehead against Crowley's and trusting to the loose clasp of Crowley's fingers around his wrist. "Are you all right, truly?"

"Tired," they said. Then, nonsensically, "you're alive."

"We both are," agreed Aziraphale. It had been so near a thing, subject to the grace of one human boy and his friends, children wielding the power of their belief in ought to be against humanity's nightmares. Witches armed with irony brought destruction to a halt. And there was the two of them, bumbling through what was written in a desperate attempt to buy more time. It had so nearly gone pear shaped.

But he was alive. Crowley was alive. All Aziraphale had to do was keep them so. Admittedly, his track record as a guardian was not confidence inspiring, but he rather thought he could handle one mercurial serpent.

"Good," said Crowley, closing their eyes. "That's good."

And it was.

* * *

1Aziraphale's main miraculous skill set was in the mending of things. As with blessings, he could see very well what was needful, where things were broken and how to set them right again. What he never admitted to, especially not to himself, was the corollary to this: that he could look at a thing and see the faults in it, the fragile places where it might break. Both skills were quite useful in situations where one needed to, as for totally irrelevant example, very quickly make a hole in a very large wall, and fix it up again after.[return to text]

2Crowley had done it once as a parlor trick in front of some very impressionable philosophers. They might as well have written "to the most gullible" and spared Aziraphale literal centuries of nonsense.[return to text]

3The problem for Aziraphale was that he couldn't stop seeing the ways a miracle had intervened. It was well enough to do for other people, who'd carry it away from him and his stubborn belief that he could improve on whatever it was he'd done and it was utterly lovely when someone else did it for him, where he could look on it and remember a kindness, but he'd worry at anything he'd done for himself until there was more miracle than reality.[return to text]

4Aziraphale had taken to forgetting things in the Bentley instead. For some reason Aziraphale had never been able to reason out, Crowley regarded these as fair game and would claim them greedily enough.[return to text]

5Crowley knew very well it had been 2048 years. What they couldn't remember were the three weeks after that, when they'd gotten rotten, stinking drunk in a welter of bitter sympathy and rage and what Aziraphale would have called heartsickness if they'd ever told him about it, which they absolutely hadn't. The most they could remember was a strong urge to lay every curse they knew on Octavian and spent the next few centuries wanting to do the same to every Caesar Augustus that followed. They'd hated the 14th century the most, but in both a personal and professional sense, the whole of the Roman Empire ran a very close second.[return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> You can catch me on [tumblr](sidewaystime.tumblr.com) if you'd like to say hi.


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